Free Sinful in Satin by Madeline Hunter

Have patience, and allow me to do it my way.”
    Jonathan stood to leave before today’s reserve of good will was spent. “For now I will leave it to you. It would be good to get the edge of the wedge in place soon, however.”
    He walked out in a dark humor that indicated that, for all his trying, he had not conquered the anger that the situation with the Earl of Thornridge always incited when he dwelled on it very long. A sensible man would have given up the chase long ago, admitted defeat, and found some peace.
    Right outside the door, he almost bumped into a footman in elaborate livery who lounged against the building. The fellow snapped into proper posture upon seeing him.
    “Mr. Jonathan Albrighton?”
    Jonathan nodded. The servant handed over a letter. Jonathan examined the paper and seal and, surprised, tore it open.
    Tuesday. Eight o’clock. Whist.
     
    Castleford
    C elia woke the next day to heavily overcast skies. She judged that she had slept later than intended. There were many things to do today. She should not have lain abed so long.
    She donned an undressing gown and wrapped herself in her warmest shawl. Mr. Albrighton might have to fetch his own water, but she had to as well. She did not relish a walk through the garden on a day when the wind blew enough to rattle her window’s shutters.
    On opening the door to her bedchamber, she saw that a bucket waited, full enough for a good washing. She tested with her fingers. It had stood there long enough for the worst of the well’s chill to pass.
    There was only one way for this water to have gotten here. She thought the gesture both endearing and surprising. How would Mr. Albrighton know she had not risen from bed yet? She smiled at the notion that perhaps he looked for her in the morning when he came down those stairs, just as she looked for him.
    While she dressed she heard the distant, rhythmic taps of a carpenter at work nearby in the neighborhood. They reminded her that she needed to find someone to replace young Tom. After the teasing yesterday, he would not be back. That was one more errand to add to a list of matters demanding her attention today.
    Hair dressed, and bonnet and pelisse in hand, she descended the front stairs. With each step, that tapping sounded louder. She realized it came from the back of her house.
    She ventured toward her back sitting room. As she approached she heard a woman say, “I still think she should have a joiner in.”
    “She decided nails would do,” Mr. Albrighton replied.
    “If used properly, perhaps they would,” came the sweet, patient, but pointed reply.
    That woman’s voice belonged to Verity. What devil had devised that she should come here without warning, and while Jonathan was in the house?
    Celia entered the chamber. Mr. Albrighton stood there in shirt and waistcoat, hammer in hand. Construction on the shelves had made good progress. Advising him, sitting aside with the drawing of the plan on the lap of her sapphire carriage ensemble, was Celia’s good friend Verity, wife of the Earl of Hawkeswell.
    Verity noticed her. “There you are. I found the garden door open and ventured in to see your new home. Your carpenter said you had gone above for a spell, so I have been helping him while I wait.”
    Celia walked over and gave her an embrace. “I hope that my friend has not interfered too much, Mr. Albrighton. You did not bargain for the sort of aid she sounded to be giving.”
    “It appears that I am barely competent at this task by the lady’s judgment.” Mr. Albrighton set another plank into place with a firmness that suggested Verity had been “helping” him for some time now.
    “I only encouraged you to do better, sir. Any fool can bang two boards together if he has twenty nails to do the job. Since I have seen them forged one by one, neither the smith’s labor nor my friend’s money should be wasted.”
    Jonathan smiled at the scold. Thinly. Celia expected him to inform Verity that he had